


It Was Hans

by Unovis



Series: Clothing Stories [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Clothing, Comfort, M/M, Service, Shoes, Valeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 00:45:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unovis/pseuds/Unovis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Hans who took things in his capable hands...or at least, hand.<br/>After the Horsemen, after Bordeaux, Methos considers a new life. And so does his new assistant--or something--Hans.<br/>This links to the Clothing Stories and Poor Roger stories, where Methos has a valet, Hans. An AU in which Methos does not return to Paris. I tagged this hurt/comfort, but the hurt took place offscreen; I like the comfort more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Hans

**Author's Note:**

> You can read this alone, picking up its background.  
> Methos kept a house in England for generations. His elderly housekeeper left care of him to her grand nephew, a soldier of fortune, Hans. Hans tracked Methos to Bordeaux, thinking to protect him; was wounded by Kronos; and brought Methos back home.  
> Originally, a story for Carenejeans (the very end). Re-post, first published February 12-March 27, 2010

It was Hans, in pain as he was, who saw to the last details.

The house, the grounds, the best part of the furnishings, were at last in other hands. The library was crated and ranked in archival boxes in a vault. The suits, the clothes, the guns, the boots, the shoes, were respectfully packed under his supervision; Adams had given no instruction concerning them and Hans had not asked. The older armament, the knives, spears, bows, and swords, were sent to an auction house at Adams’s brusque request. Auntie Roza's trunk was stored in Hans’s own name. The London house was under construction--reconstruction, renovation, enlargement, upheaval, tearing up and nailing down and plastering over--and would be uninhabitable for months to come. Hans reported via telephone to his bored and snappish charge, sequestered at a Mayfair hotel for what must be an ungodly sum. 

At the end, Adams (Dr. Adams, Hans appended) summoned and Hans came.

Adams called and Hans came, with his bruises faded and his mending arm still in a cast and sling. He took the train to London; his car, his sole precious property, was garaged back in the town. No one met him at the station, no one helped with his pack and valise. A poor mobile connection yielded a message from Adams: he was awaited at the hotel, his accommodation readied. Irritated with his incapacity, the smell of the stations, the porter, the rain, the taxi's splash of his unpolished shoes, Hans went where he was told.

The hotel was at once more and less hideous than Hans had feared. The facade was a concrete wall punctuated by architectural reliefs in severe Greek style. The door and a strip of window at knee height were boxed in aquatic neon glow. The doorman on opening the cab door greeted Hans by name. He assumed it was the doorman; he was officious, sleekly suited, and wired for communication. Hans’s bags were collected by another minimally liveried minion, who handed him a card key in a shadow-printed folder and led him across the gray plains of the lobby directly to a lift. On the way, Hans thought he saw giant chess pieces around a table. He noted the lack of chintz, brass, glass, peace lilies, and plum and black. 

“Is Dr. Adams in?” Hans asked, as the lift doors slid shut. The minion communicated aloof regret. “He is.” Hans stared the slight, shorter man in the eye. “Mr…Doctor Adams is always in,” the minion elaborated, breaking contact. “He does not care to be disturbed.”

“I am Mr Hauser,” said Hans. “You will make any disturbances to me.”

The lift opened on a foyer with a single door. Hans brushed past the minion and used his card to enter the rooms. They walked into silvery shadows and silence, into a short hall that turned right to a large, curtained sitting room. It was empty. Hans sniffed. He stepped forward and trod on a spoon. “Leave the bags,” said Hans. “Send up a barber and a maid.”

“I don’t want a barber.” The voice came from another room.

“Go,” said Hans. But the door had already shut behind the attendant. He pressed a switch near his free hand and a row of halogen lights brightened the opposite long wall. It was a spare room appointed in white and gray: high-ceilinged, with oversize leather chairs, a curve-backed couch, and low tables that looked like granite blocks. Adams slouched in a doorway, adding nothing to the décor.

“You’re wet,” said Adams.

“Kind of you to notice,” said Hans. “Where am I to stay?”

“Back there.” Adams pointed with his chin. “I don’t want a barber or any maids. I sent for you.”

“I’m unable to clean and I shave badly with my left hand.” Adams looked only a shade better than he had on the trip home from Bordeaux three weeks ago. His eyes were shadowed. His skin was pale. His deplorable pullover and jeans hung from a frame that was thinner, if possible. But he did not stink of lightning or fear or blood. “I’ll order dinner,” Hans said. He slipped out of his wet shoes, picked them up with his pack, and walked in the direction indicated to find his room.

***

Adams, when prompted, was not a stingy man. That boded well for future comfort and harmony in the home.

They were shaved, Adams ceasing to scowl with the first application of hot towels. Hans asked for a straight razor; Adams preferred a safety. Adams’s hair was trimmed under Hans’s critical eye--appealingly, neatly, shaped. Hans ordered a manicure for his ragged nails. His charge was surprisingly comfortable, almost docile, in ministering hands. A life of early ease, Hans supposed, before some event deprived him of physical amenities and the wardrobe of an adult. Or was it only relief? While they were groomed, the suite of rooms was quietly, efficiently neatened and linens changed. Their meal was adequate. Adams made no inquiries. Hans excused himself, unpacked as best he could, and went to bed.

***

Adams had come to London with less luggage than Hans. He’d had only his clothing from Bordeaux, and half of that ruined. Since their return, he’d added little that Hans observed, save an unsightly insulated overcoat and woolen socks. He’d rarely left the hotel, seldom left his rooms for the restaurant and bar. He was not liked by the staff.

The rooms were well appointed. Hans had his bedroom and bath, a pantry, a small kitchen where he was useless for anything beyond making coffee or tea, and a narrow anteroom with tall windows between his bedroom and the pantry. There was a dining area and the large sitting room and beyond them, Adams’s bedroom and bath. Hans found that color could be supplied to the pale rooms by a system of variable lights. He dialed the anteroom to a warm rose, thinking it would have charmed his aunt. Adams paid no mind. His rooms remained indifferently white.

They occupied half the floor, the other half serviced by a separate lift. Hans assumed it was empty; he heard no sounds from that side. Installed at either end of the overly large space, the two of them kept sulky, silent company. Adams had no conversation at night. The television was rarely on, no music played. Adams read and slept and tapped away at his computer. Hans continued to oversee the renovation of the house, to answer all incoming calls from the joiners and plumbers and harried electrician. Adams saw him writing awkwardly with his left hand (notes for a security system) and a second, wickedly gleaming, laptop arrived and was formatted to his taste that afternoon. Hans investigated the hotel kitchen and their meals improved, through judicious choices and smiles at the flirtatious sous chef. 

After three days, Hans kept a doctor’s appointment Adams had made. The cast would remain for another month. The fractures had been bad and he was healing slowly. His wrist was faring slightly better than his arm, but that was of little help. It would mean incapacity through Christmas, at least. Hans walked home, the better to brood, the longer to avoid the silent rooms. He turned onto Jermyn Street on a whim. He considered the shabbily dressed Adams and the wardrobe he’d packed away. The clothes were ghosts, the shell of a venerable ancestor. Auntie Roza had had such deep affection for the man. Hans found him charming the once they’d met, when Hans was a boy. The smile, the offered orange, was a warm memory. The suits, the shirts, the glorious profusion of ties expressed an elegant sensuality, a deeply felt love of life. Hans had been educated from them by old Meyer. He’d studied them, their care, their structure, the names of their creators. Most pieces were custom made, yet the handmade boots fit the current Adams, as did the occasionally appropriated jacket or shirt. He wondered if Adams maintained a tailor’s account. Doubtful. But. Hans stopped in front of a familiar name, teeth pressed into his lip. He weighed a goal against Adams’s sure displeasure.

Clothes make the man.

***

By the time Hans returned to the hotel, out of the darkening afternoon, the first of his packages had been delivered. He carried a shopping bag containing one box, leaving the rest for the bellman to manage in his wake.

Adams rose from the couch, clutching his laptop, when they entered. He napped there sometimes, the warm machine humming on his stomach. He frowned at them. “I hope one of those is a steak.”

“To my room, please,” Hans told the bellman. “Shall I order dinner?” he asked Adams. It was early yet. Adams ate, they both ate, at seven, or had these past three days. The bellman came back from Hans’s section of the apartment and left, Adams watching him silently until the door closed.

“I expected you at one. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. The electrician’s quit.”

“Steak?” asked Hans. The hotel served a beefsteak that was overcooked or bloody and cold. Their lamb was excellent, which Hans found a mystery. He thought bloody beef would do Adams well. He was still too pale and tired. “Gillette’s up the street…”

“I’m not going out,” Adams snapped. “I said the damned electrician’s quit.” Tired and unusually exercised.

“Yes, I’ll see to that. I’ll call the kitchen. Sir.”

“Don’t call me Sir. Don’t patronize me, don’t waste my goddamned time. Don’t….” Adams waved his hand at the bag. “…shop!”

Hans looked at a spot to the left of Adams’s ear. Interpol training and a bitter childhood had strengthened his facial control. “This is the third time Hake has quit before a long week-end since he began work. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced.” He dropped the bag at his pettish employer’s feet. “Your clothes are inadequate, Dr. Adams.” And bloody cold steak would do.

Adams kicked the bag away. “Call me if you’ll be late.”

Ah. He hadn't thought. “Sir.” It was habit. He’d get used to it. Hans touched the laptop, still clutched against Adams’s chest. “Are you in danger here? Is someone watching you?” _Watching me?_ There were circles under Adams’s eyes, eyes that were dark and bleak and lost. He’d freed a fox from a trap and splinted its leg and it had looked at him like that. Wild, in his kitchen, in its wooden box.

The mobile mouth tightened. He deliberately laid the laptop down. “No. Thank you, Hans. No one.”

It wasn’t reassuring. Hans had replaced his Luger. He could shoot well enough with either hand. He could tuck a knife into his sling. Illegal as all hell in England, but that was a lesser danger. He tried to radiate the protectiveness, the competence, he embodied. Against his contracting muscles, his arm gave a sharp twinge. 

Adams smiled, with an effort. “Pizza and beer? Gilette’s tomorrow, maybe.”

“Pizza is not food,” said Hans, directing his steps to the kitchen and house phone. He’d order the dismal mess purveyed by Johnny Gianni’s. He’d serve it on the hotel china, with glasses for the bottled pilsner they kept on hand. He’d draw Adams a hot, mineral infused bath. And then today’s expedition would bear fruit.

***

Hans heard curses and footsteps across the floors. They came through the kitchen into his pantry, where he sat with a shoe between his aproned knees, polishing it one-handed. Adams walked in naked. His hair was damp and a towel hung around his neck. Not for the first time, Hans noticed the unblemished skin, free of bruises or sign of injury. Thin, though, more than Hans had conjectured from his sagging clothes. Cold, he could feel cold; his skin was pebbled.

“Where are my clothes?”

“The bathrobe is to keep you warm. Shall I find it for you?” They both knew full well where the robe was. Hans had hung it himself inside the bathroom door when Adams failed to open its box. It was thick, of cotton toweling, navy with a diamond pattern cut deep along the hem. Comfort for a cold, damp body, and less clinical than the white “spa” garment offered by the hotel and rejected before Hans arrived.

“What have you done with my damned...”

“Laundry. It was necessary.” His clothing hadn’t been properly cared for, so far as he could tell, since they returned. There was blood and mud on some items he’d uncovered in the bureau’s lower drawers. Laundry or incinerator, most were fit for. “I sent them out. They’ll be returned in the morning.”

“And I go naked tonight?”

Foolish question. Adams had no night wear. He always slept naked, so far as Hans knew. Nonetheless. “There is the robe. There are a few essentials I’ve acquired. Shall we see if they fit?”

“We?” Adams glared at him. He shivered, slightly. His hands were clenched on the towel’s ends. “We? I don’t need a bloody nanny. I hired you as a secretary. As...”

“A man’s man.”

“Secretary! Assistant. I need you to deal with the damned workmen and phone, I don’t need a fucking bodyguard. I don’t need a fucking body slave. I don’t need to be _dressed_ , for Christ’s sake...”

“No, sir.” _Body slave._ Hans put aside the shoe and stood. He had a few inches on Adams. So close, Hans could look down on his knobbed shoulder and knife-blade clavicles. If he leaned, he’d doubtless see the gooseflesh of his buttocks behind. He’d warm him with his breath if he blew, he thought with amusement. “Towel and tea? Or would you prefer brandy?” Naked tonight or robed or wrapped in a sheet, unless he wanted to brave Hans’s parcels from today. Adams narrowed his eyes and snorted. He turned ( _yes, gooseflesh_ ) and stalked away, toward his own rooms. Perhaps he’d find the pyjamas under the pillow and the slippers by the bed. Hans filled the kettle and plugged it in.

***

Pyjamas and slippers both, both fitting, to Hans’s satisfaction. Adams still looked cold, sitting on the couch, sipping the scalding tea. “For future reference, Jeeves, I prefer flannel or wool. Return that bloated monstrosity.”

“Consider it gone, sir.” Was that laughter blooming in his eye? He’d poured whisky in the tea, before tasting it.

“What else have you acquired? Do I expect the tailors in the morning?”

“Underwear. Vests and boxers.” Adams inclined his head. No underwear was among the rags consigned to the launderers. The man went naked under his bluejeans. Bordering on the barbaric. “Shirts, two pullovers, wool trousers.” A sports jacket to complement the charcoal trousers. Socks and a belt. He needed shoes. A pair of battered Doc Martens and a pair of half boots, the worse for water, were all he’d come with. “Fittings, if you wish. You’re under your usual weight, sir. I thought we might wait.” _Starved,_ Hans thought, suddenly. And felt guilty for not feeding him up. He didn’t eat like a man hungry. Right now, ignoring the shortbread biscuits Hans had provided, he stared at his manicured nails.

“A man’s man. A man with a man’s man.”

“Yes,” said Hans. “There is also a tie.” Adams smiled into his tea. Hans smiled at the top of his head. It was a carefully chosen tie, a tie worthy of Adams’s grandfather. It was Italian silk, seven-fold--not that Adams was likely to know what that meant--of a deep green, to bring out his eyes, with a subtle golden brown figure. It sat heavy and silken in the hand and would knot beautifully around his neck.

“Thank you, Hans. I’ll try them tomorrow morning.” His eyes were still downcast, on the teacup, on his hands.

“Yes, sir,” said Hans. “I regret the robe.” He left the living room. He’d take all the items from their boxes and dispose them in Adams’s room. In his armoire, his bureau drawers. The tie laid on his bed. Bit by bit, perhaps, a new man could be built, a new man with a man’s man. And he’d remember to discharge Hake.

***

There _was_ a fitting, days later. In the sitting room. Adams had no account under his own name, apparently, but had recalled one of his grandfather’s from a venerable house, which was pleased to accept his order. Ignoring Hans’s objection, he was measured for a suit, in English style, of a dark blue-gray, nailhead pattern, medium-weight wool. Hans approved the lack of pinstripe, at his current weight. “My fighting weight,” quipped Adams to the tailor. _Whippet weight,_ Hans thought. Adams, once again, seemed to relish being touched. He slitted his eyes at the slither of tape around his chest, along his arms, down his inside leg. Each tug of his shirt or brush of his stomach or hip registered minutely in his face. Being measured seemed a sybaritic joy to Hans’s unkempt, slouching, prickly charge. Day by day, under Hans’s eyes, the man had evolved, adjusted, gaining a different exterior. He sat and stood more erect. His chin was up. He spoke to Hans differently, slightly, slightly more the Master, less the uneasy companion. The core man was the same, wasn’t he? “Braces,” Adams answered. Again, Hans approved, watching. Wary. Nothing for it but to believe he’d led a different life before his recent circumstance. Between his birth and Paris. And Bordeaux.

Adams caught Hans’s eye. “Shoes,” he said. “Take my size and measure and see what you can find. I trust your judgment. Black for now, I think.” So, he was still not leaving the hotel. Adams had ordered several items by phone or internet; more boxes had arrived, to be privately unpacked, their contents so far unseen. One was from a shop known for its leather goods. Hans did not yet, in his current condition, lay out Adams’s clothing each morning. He did not deign to go through Adams’s drawers. Their beds were made in the morning by the one maid Adams tolerated.

The tailor having departed, with recommendations on shirting, Hans prepared to hunt shoes. He had the afternoon free, tacitly. He shrugged into his overcoat, buttoning it awkwardly over his sling. Adams remained on the footstool, in socks and boxers, shirt and tie, hugging himself. Hans raised his mobile phone in farewell. “Ring if you’re concerned,” he said. 

He knew of a clandestine firing range not too far from a decent shop for shoes. He could use the practice.

***

Three pairs of shoes Adams should have, at least. Six pairs Hans would select, in hope of Adams approving one. This time. Oxfords, moccasins. The short boots he seemed to like. If he were dissatisfied enough, he might come out himself. This first time, Hans would be conservative. Quiet, solid, good taste, not fashion. A hint of history. And then he might show him a picture of the custom made Berluti Magistrales he fancied would amuse. Hans walked the cold winter pavements from shop to shop, thinking, watching window reflections, listening to footsteps.

The firing range was installed in the deeply soundproofed basement of a private club for security personnel. Hans provided his references and credentials, paid the exorbitant fee, and signed up for the following evening at eight. His nights were his own, once he’d arranged their dinners. His arm ached from the cold and so much movement. He took a cab home. Home. As the streets whipped by, he thought, _I live in London, now._ He did. He would. Adams would want him to.

Their rooms were warmer than when he left. Adams must have been at the heating controls. He wasn’t in his usual spot on the couch (why nap on the couch instead of the much more comfortable bed?). Four boxes of shoes had been delivered, opened in the living room, and discarded with their packing materials on the rug. Reassembling the wreckage, Hans saw that one pair were missing--the black calf chukka boots with a rubber sole that he’d picked up on chance from Herring, that presumably had found favor. Decent looking, good grip on the ground; Adams wasn’t as likely as himself to evaluate shoes handy in fight or flight. Hans heard music from Adams’s rooms, again, unusual. Good, possibly. He didn’t recognize the blues singer above a creditable guitar. Adams’s door was open. Hans knocked on the frame.

“Good, you’re back.” Adams didn’t look at him. He was absorbed in his reflection in the full-length mirror on the ugly white armoire. It was a stark rectangle perched on four white fat feet shaped like column capitals. He despaired of postmodern design. Adams looked nearly as distressing. He wore the boots. He wore tight fitting black trousers of some unknown fabric…denim?...that left nothing to the imagination. He certainly was not wearing boxers underneath. He wore a _black silk_ shirt, fitted and also tight, unbuttoned to show the base of his throat, a shirt that Hans had not--never would have--bought. And looped over it, with a pulled-down knot, the tie! On the bed was one of the cashmere pullovers, next to a raspberry colored scarf and a soft black leather jacket, too short to keep his exposed assets warm. As Adams turned and plucked at his trousers, Hans could glimpse raspberry colored socks. He looked… ungodly. Add a pound of jewelry and deduct ten years and he could be mistaken, uncharitably, for a rent boy. An Irish rent boy. Hans realized Adams was now staring at him, in the mirror. Leering, the…foolish man. Hans coughed.

“You like the shoes?” he asked, baldly.

Adams nodded. “I do.” He cocked his head. “You’d know if you were followed?”

A question Hans could answer. “Yes, sir. I haven’t been, to the best of my knowledge.”

“Which is saying a lot. I told you, I’m in no danger. But there are some nosy sorts who may be interested in my whereabouts. Think…” he stuck his thumbs in his front pockets and twisted his pelvis, estimating the effect, “…reporters. Yes. Gossip-mongering, unprincipled, intrusive busybodies, eager to track me down and observe. To lick up the details of my life.”

Or police, Hans thought. Insurance investigators? Private detectives? Better than armed threat, at least. And reason enough to keep Adams secreted here. But why the fancy dress? Was this reportorial curiosity connected to the violent events that unfolded at Bordeaux? Adams had said that his troubles ended with the death of the scarred man and the departure of the demented harpy. His story, when he could speak and Hans could listen. It made no difference. Hans touched his injured arm, reflexively. Bad luck and good riddance to the lot of them. Life was better. Adams was throwing off his gloom. Adams was improving. Adams should not be allowed to dress himself.

“Sir,” Hans began. Adams ignored him, returning to gazing at the mirror, at his profile.

“Keep these and the loafers, return the others.”

“Two more pair are coming, one of them slip-ons as well. Shall we wait?”

“If you like.” He turned to regard Hans, head on. “Do you think this is…” he swept a hand down his body; a flourishing hand, “…dated?”

Hans stilled his face. “Dated? Sir?”

“Do I look like a seventies tart? You seem on top of these things.”

“I.” Hans called up the reserves and ranked them behind his teeth. “What is it you wish to look like? Sir?”

“Like…very expensive chocolate,” said Adams, a crease between his brows.

“More like…liquorice allsorts,” replied Hans. And left while he respectfully was able.

***

Adams came out to eat, returned to his clean and shapeless bluejeans and colorless Henley shirt--without his new shoes, but with the magenta socks. Where had he found the execrable things?

“Tomorrow evening I will be out,” said Hans, over dessert. It was a chalky but high-calorie cheesecake. If necessary, there would be a second fitting. Might malnutrition have affected Adams’s judgment? Hans considered the benefits of a daily vitamin supplement. “From 7:30 until 10.” He might take a walk after shooting or stop by an old haunt for a drop of Tokay, to refresh a former acquaintance. “Or 10:30.”

“Fine,” said Adams. “Don’t order the cheesecake again. This is dreadful. My private life is…since I’ve known you, I’ve had none.” He transitioned without change in expression. He mashed cheesecake crumbs into the plate with the back of his fork.

“No sir,” said Hans. His American wife of less than a year, wed under his Paris name, had died in Greece and been buried in Paris, far from the ancestral plot. Hans had discovered her. No other women had come to light.

“I…”

“No affair of mine, sir,” said Hans. Alarming if there were a prospective new wife. Hans doubted that was the case, unless she’d been ordered through the Internet as well. Unless the socks were a gift, a terrible foreboding, from a color-blind, fashion-blind, cyber witch of a…

“No. No, of course not. I. I value your discretion, Hans. And your. Candor.”

“Yes, sir.” Hans looked pointedly at the socks. 

Adams waggled his feet and cleaned the dreadful cheesecake from his plate. 

Conversation for the evening was over. Ringing for the trolley to be removed, Hans hoped this was not an inquiry about paid companionship. The hotel would take a dim view of any but the most discreet transactions. _In re_ that subject, a mistress, off premises, would not be terrible were she to lighten Adams’s heart. A bachelor household, without entanglements, would of course be preferable. Perhaps a dog…

***

The remaining shoes arrived the next day, lamentably late, and Hans was pleased to reject them. Adams kept to himself, absorbed in his computer. Hans sorted a plasterers’ dispute with extreme prejudice and took the new electrician team (two Indian women, apparently a couple, and superior to Hake in every way) from evaluation to permanent status. He ate lightly, looking forward to his Tokay and possibly a pastry. He clipped the Luger’s holster to his belt. It was awkward to reach with his overcoat on, but it was the best he could do for now. Adams had been distant or distracted over dinner. Dark. He was in his rooms when Hans left.

Hans returned from his evening out sore, tired, and satisfied. He returned to a silent apartment, with one lamp lit. He paused in the bend of the entry hall, scanning the sitting room. The apartment felt different. He called, "Dr. Adams," to no response. He dropped his coat on the floor and pulled his gun. He walked through empty rooms to Adams's bedroom, knocked on the door, and entered. Empty, as was the bath. Nothing appeared disturbed. He phoned Adams's mobile, standing in the bedroom; Adams did not answer. On investigation, he found the leather jacket, the chukka boots, the tight trousers, and the horrid socks missing. The black silk shirt hung in the armoire, but the fine white on gray stripe shirt, the charcoal pullover, and the tie (the tie! with gray and black and those socks!) were gone. Kidnapped and dressed at gunpoint, Hans speculated glumly. Or just as badly, on his own. In long, tense strides, he crossed to his own rooms, through the empty kitchen and pantry, to find a note taped to his bedroom door. “Gone out. All’s well. Don’t wait up.”

Hans frowned and holstered the gun. He would sleep, lightly. If Adams were still missing in the morning, he would search his desk and break the code on his laptop.

Adams returned at dawn. Hans was awake, brewing tea. Adams was disheveled, bright eyed, high colored. He reeked of smoke and whiskey and things organic, things chemical. The shadow of his beard was stark against his pale skin. His mouth was flushed and loose. “Morning,” he greeted Hans. He undid the leather jacket. Underneath his pullover, hanging loose, was a blue Hermès tie dotted with elephants. The green silk was wadded in his jacket pocket, its tail peeking out. “Sorry,” said Adams, pulling it out. A matchbox fell. The Royal Vauxhall Tavern.

 _I see,_ Hans told himself. _I should have seen._

“Breakfast?” asked Hans. But Adams patted his other pocket, which dribbled crumbs. Adams took his mug of tea to his room. He took a long, hot shower, and slept the daylight away, discarded clothes strewn on the rug, the blue tie wound in the bedclothes. Hans ordered a masseur.

***

A new week. A new session at the firing range. Another night Hans spent alone.

At ten that next morning, Adams came briskly in, clean shaven and wearing an alien pink tie, and calling for Hans to pack. To pack, to leave, with no explanation. Within the hour, he led the small parade of Hans and a single bellman with a luggage carrousel (remarkable how little of their own was in the apartment) down to the garage level, to a gleaming, new, dark green Range Rover. At some time, somehow, Adams had bought a car.

The luggage stowed, the final gratuities distributed, Hans sat beside Adams, comfortably ensconced in the front passenger seat, in the car, in the garage. “I didn’t want to spend the Solstice here,” Adams said. It meant nothing to Hans. They rolled out of the garage onto the city street, heading generally west.

“Not Scotland,” said Adams. “Not France.” It was coming on Christmas and cold everywhere.

“Spain?” said Hans. “Italy?”

“How does Blackpool sound?” said Adams. 

“Like a seventies tart,” said Hans. It was the first time since Bordeaux that Adams laughed aloud.

***

He was serious. Blackpool. North, cold, and ridiculous. Hans stared through the windscreen at traffic, crawling, uninteresting traffic.

Should he try reason? Was Adams…he had the shadow of a doubt…was Adams completely sane? 

“Sir?”

“I said, how’s the arm?” asked Adams. 

“Mending. Slowly. May I ask…”

“When does the cast come off?”

“May I ask, why Blackpool?”

“Don’t worry about it. You’ll like it.” He shifted in his seat and re-adjusted the strap across his chest. “We can…we won’t stay long. How long will the house take? How long ’till you’re fit?”

“Several weeks before the cast is removed. At best. The house will not be habitable until spring. March, if we press and the papers can be expedited. And then furnishings. Have you decided on the kitchen fixtures?” The London house was surprisingly small. Hans assumed that Adams would find a primary residence elsewhere, when he’d had time to collect himself, and the funds from the sale of the old house had been banked. Hans purposely had not asked about the length of his employment. There was a pantry that could be converted to a suitable, if narrow, bedroom in the refurbished house. Adams’s focus on a schedule was unusual.

“March,” said Adams. He changed his grip on the steering wheel and fell silent again.

Hans watched more traffic.

***

His arm ached worse than ever. Half a tablet, he could risk. He avoided pain medication when he should be alert.

***

Hans woke when Adams’s mobile rang and rang, unanswered. Adams switched it off, one handed. Shut it off, with a scowl.

“Where are we?” Hans asked.

“Coming up on Knutsford. You’ve been out for an hour.” Adams’s seat belt was unfastened.

Hans hadn’t realized how tired he was. How he could have slept so easily. Had been able to do so, next to Adams. “Sorry,” he said.

Adams lifted a shoulder. “Relax. We’re on holiday.”

“Why…”

“There’s something about resorts off season,” said Adams. “Quiet. Recharging. Between lives. You need a long, cold beach, sometimes.”

“Are we between lives?” It came out without thought.

Adams turned his head and looked at him. He was wearing sunglasses. His face was unreadable. A passing car flicked his attention back to the road and he was quiet for a minute. Then he said, “You’re free to leave me, Hans. I’ll see you comfortably off.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Hans. _Not ‘leave my employ’; ‘leave me.’_

“Why?”

It was a fair question, and no fair answer could he give. “It suits me,” he said, and that was as close to the truth as his heart lay.

Adams’s mouth twisted into his half smile. “Lucky me.”

“Sir.” _Damned right._

“I’ve acquired the adjoining building,” said Adams, as though that were a logical continuation. “I may alter the construction of the upper storey. More room up there, you see. There’s a garage.”

Hans began calculating the additional time and laborers. That was an intelligent move, for security. The narrow building and garage next door, originally a carriage house, shared a wall with Adams’s house. Beyond them was a small alley and then a modern concrete monstrosity of a bank’s admin office. It nicely added to the living space.

“Upper floor extension. A flat below. For you, if it still suits.”

Hans blinked. He hadn’t expected.

“Choose the kitchen fittings yourself. You’ll be using them.” Adams signaled and took the exit for central Knutsford. “Speaking of, let’s eat. I know a little place.”

 _Curtains, not shutters. Double sink and change the counter. A solid gas range. Black and white tile. Damned right._ “Yes, sir,” said Hans.

***

The Knutsford café produced an excellent meal. They were served by the owner’s daughter, whom Adams seemed to find familiar; he smiled, speaking to her, and (Hans could swear), even flirted with his eyes. She clearly did not, nor did she wish to, know him. Still, Adams was smiling as they left. He walked up the street, even entered a dusty and cluttered shop advertising “Antiques.” Hans remained by the door, wary of narrow aisles and objects at elbow height. Adams mused--pottered--about and chatted with the owner, a dry-faced old man, about Edwardian sautoirs and cameos and the shop’s history. He pointed at something in one of the display cases; after a certain fuss over packing, he walked out with a wrapped parcel under his arm. A sharp wind whipped their faces as they walked back to the car. “Lovely day,” offered Adams, donning his sunglasses. Hans believed he was sincere.

The rest of the drive passed easily. While Adams could not be described as cheerful, he seemed less self absorbed. He even pointed out a number of local landmarks and features of what seemed to Hans to be an undistinguished, even dreary, route. Eventually, Hans closed his eyes.

Adams had provided for him. He would have his own residence, beside Adams’s house. The wall on the upper level…Hans frowned. Since he’d returned to London, he’d only walked through the chaos of the refurbishment once. He wasn’t sure what would be required for the wall at the end of the upstairs corridor to be opened up for entry to the adjacent house. Whatever that entailed, it would extend his estimated date of completion far beyond March.

Where would they live until then? Would they roam from one “long, cold beach” to another, through the spring? Summer? Would Adams return to France? Why the hell had Adams insisted on selling his beautiful house? Did tradition mean nothing to the man? Did family? He never mentioned family. Never, ever, in Hans’s knowledge, spoke of his mother; he barely acknowledged his father. Auntie Roza had been vague about the immediate family. But no distant cousins? No classmates? No lovers…Hans squirmed, mentally. But the fact remained; until the evidence of sexual activity on at least his first night out--and a strip of condoms found somewhere in their rooms and left on Hans’s bedside table by the maid--the man he thought he knew had been either celibate or remarkably discreet. He’d never mentioned his wife. He may not know that Hans knew of her. That hideous woman in Bordeaux was apparently a past entanglement. The men…Hans had never even considered Adams with a man. He’d given no clue that…he had never suggested any such interest in Hans. Thank God. Hans reviewed again, carefully. No. Not at his most vulnerable, not in pain, not in need, not in comfort and privacy.

Were men…of that sort…more dangerous to his charge than women? Had they anything to do with the inquisitive ones Adams was trying to avoid? Hans didn’t like the idea of Adams seeking strange men out at night. Not as a habit. Best not Brighton, perhaps, after all.

“Awake?” asked Adams, quietly.

“Yes.” Hans opened his eyes. How did he know? His breathing, likely. He’d have to remember to ask about those “reporters.”

“We’re nearly there.” Traffic was much more congested, though more so in the opposite direction. “We’ll try the Queens Grand first. I was there once before; I believe it’s still open.”

The Queens Grand was not. It had been torn down and replaced by an amusement arcade, which had recently been boarded up. Hans wondered if Adams were relying on childhood memories. His mouth quirked at the image of Adams, all knees and nose and elbows, in short trousers with a bucket and spade. Or sticky, with an ice lolly. On a donkey?

The Sunburst, Adams’s second choice, was available. Nearly empty, in fact, with half its rooms closed off. Its lobby was airy and damp and gilded in the oddest places. “Fine,” said Adams, registering without inspecting the rooms. Hans would have a say about future arrangements. And a say with the staff, if all were not to his liking. And possibly, taking Adams by the scruff of his neck, transport to another hostelry. Adams winked at him and picked up his own bag. Donkey, yes.

***

Hans’s room was spare and moderately unattractive (plaid was bad, but better than chintz) but clean and drier than the lobby. The bed was comfortable. There was no smell. They were given two adjoining rooms, both en suite, unconnected. He had a shower but no bathtub. There was a radio. There was a padded armchair and desk with no chair and a solid wood dresser. There was a table with outlets for a television, but no set. There was a green and brown rug. Hans sat on his bed and looked around the room. What would he do here for Adams? What was Hans’s job in Blackpool, on “holiday,” in a mid-range, pre-war hotel? Adams still needed clothes. Hans doubted he could buy them here. His plan to make Adams into a new man…needed further thought. He rang the concierge and asked about Internet access. There was none in the hotel (coming that summer!), but a café at the corner had access for a reasonable fee. He asked for a telephone directory to be delivered to his room. He sat back down on the bed. Why this hotel and not whatever passed for luxury and modernity here? Adams!

The man himself knocked on his door and entered. “Hm.” He looked around. “A bit basic. My room’s better. Do you want to trade?” Hans had lived in less comfortable barracks. If they were hiding from the press, this certainly seemed out of the way.

“Will this hotel suit your needs?” asked Hans.

“I’m easy,” said Adams. “It’s an old family place. The staff are pleasant. Parking’s fine. We’ll ask for a television. Anything missing?”

“No Internet,” said Hans. He liked to soak away a wearing day in a tub, but wouldn’t mention it. “Hmm,” said Adams, investigating the bath for himself. “Sea’s right there, though. Bracing plunge in the A.M., wake you right up.” He spoke as he picked up the phone and punched a button. “Desk. A different room for Mr Hauser, please. Television and a tub. Bigger bed, some light.. Lovely. Thank you.” He put the receiver down. “Nothing to be done about the Internet; I asked myself. Said they’d open up the corner room for you, lots of sun. Come for a walk. Get the lay of the land.” He handed Hans his coat from the bed. Hans sighed, internally. On holiday.

***

They walked, that day and the next and the day after that. They walked on the cold seaside. They walked on the pier. They walked down streets past garish signs and snack shops and shuttered souvenir stands. They walked, together and separately, in the biting, wet cold until their rooms warmed at night. The new room for Hans was sunnier, larger, altogether more pleasing. With a generous old footed tub and hardy plumbing. Adams, or someone playful on staff, gifted him with a rubber duck.

Hans found a cutlery shop, well stocked, whose owner steered him to a pleasant wine bar. Hans frequented the place alone. He met a few old soldiers trading stories of wars he had not fought. He told them a story of his own; then, accepted, was content to listen. He related one anecdote he’d heard to Adams, who reciprocated with one from the Crimean War. In all, it was more comradely conversation than Hans had had for years.

The first afternoon, Adams found a chemist and acquired a soft toothbrush, liquid soap, and polishing cloths. The mysterious package from the Antiques shop was nothing more interesting than a heap of old coins. Adams occupied himself at night cleaning them, sitting on his bed, watching sitcoms or natural history programs in Hans’s company. His mood, daily, seemed to improve.

Somehow, somewhere, Adams acquired a new pair of socks in neon green.

The Solstice, of such concern to Adams, Hans thought, passed without note.

***

On the fourth or fifth day, against the pouring rain, they sat in the Sunburst’s saloon sharing a pint. Rather, Adams drank his second pint of pale ale while Hans drew slowly on his bottle of Dos Equis. They sat at a slightly sticky circular table, chairs arranged by habit so they both faced the bar’s entrance. Hans had been amused to notice this from the first time he sat with Adams in a public place. Adams was telling a story about Sir Richard Burton from some book he’d read; inspired no doubt, by the ale. Hans jotted, awkwardly, a memo on cabinets. He’d given the workmen (and women) a week off, staggered. He’d had a phone line installed. He called daily. He pondered security, again. The house during rebuilding was at its most vulnerable. Its inner structures, its frames and functions, were exposed. Abruptly, Adams stopped talking. He looked up sharply at the door. A man stepped across the sill and paused. A remarkable figure, in theatrical dress, spattered with rain.

“Fee Fi Fo Fum,” the man announced. “I smell the blood of Doc Adams.”

Hans stiffened. Adams chuckled and lay back. “Comes the rainbow in the storms of life,” he drawled.

The speech surprised Hans; the look of Adams, even more so. His body elongated, his eyelids drooped, his lips parted; he looked open, seductive...feline. Excited. He had had trouble before now seeing Adams as a man who trafficked with men. Not now.

The stranger walked to their table, showing a slight limp. Under his overcoat flashed a tapestry waistcoat; within the soft, open collar of his shirt was knotted a violet silk foulard. He carried an antique cane; a swordstick, Hans decided. He looked vaguely familiar. His hair was long and curled, his face pale, his eyes bright and moist and rimmed with a dark cosmetic line On reaching them, he stopped, knee touching Adams’s sprawling leg. He stretched out his arm, and with his fingers stroked the back of Adams’s hand. “Greetings, Doc,” he said. The air seemed to vibrate between them. Hans felt his neck hair rise; he did not like this man.

Adams’s smile widened. “Greetings, Gordon.”

The creature turned a haughty face to Hans. “Doc jokes. The name is George. Byron.” He tilted his head to look Hans over, from tabletop to hairline. “As you may recognize.”

“I recognize the name of the over-rated poet. I don’t know you,” said Hans. The man sucked his lower lip at him. Over-rated, over-sauced, over-sexed poet; the worst of a bad school. A likely stage name for this mannequin, whatever his claim to celebrity. 

“Introduce us,” Byron ordered Adams..

“Sit down,” said Adams. “I read you were in Australia.”

“Expelled by Philistines and Puritans. You have my name,” he continued, still gazing at Hans. “I’m at a disadvantage.”

“George Byron, musician; Hans Hauser, assistant extraordinary,” said Adams. Byron inclined his head. Hans did not move. He did not like this man. He waited for the reasons to reveal themselves.

“You’ve been a naughty boy,” said Byron, turning to Adams and seating himself. “Gone without a forwarding address.” He brushed a nonexistent crumb from Adams’s chest, which Adams allowed. Hans swore he pinched his breast before letting his hand drop. Adams’s smile gained corners.

“How did you find us?” asked Hans.

“Old friend of the family,” said Byron, to Adams, not him. “I can’t believe you sold the house. Where will we commune, to meet each new age?”

“It was time,” said Adams. “Hans, would you excuse us?”

“Hauser, Hans,” mused Byron. He studied Hans’s face. “I’ve heard that name.”

“You remember Roza Erdôs?” Adams began.

“Not Roza’s kin? Loving Roza, loyal Roza--Rose of blushing mouth and petals spread and scent ambrosial.”

Hans was on his feet, Adams was on his feet, blocking him. “You will not speak my aunt’s name,” said Hans.

“He’s an ass,” said Adams. “Apologize, George, or I’ll let Hans break your head. I’ll break it myself.”

Byron slouched unmoved in his chair, toying with his cane. “I prostrate myself, to master and servant both. I kiss your boots. Or is that position taken?”

Adams’s hand tightened around Hans’s bicep, painfully. He was stronger than Hans expected. “He’s drunk,” Adams murmured to him. “Leave. I’ll handle him. Take my apology for his.” Aloud, he said, “He could beat you, George.”

“Too late,” said Byron. He plucked at his shirt, spreading his jacket wide. “I’m slain, I die.” His eyes glittered, his cheeks were pink against the leprous pallor of his face. He licked his lips. Hans swallowed his disgust.

“Menj a halál faszára. Stay out of my sight,” said Hans. Adams twitched, in surprise or distaste. He released his grip. Hans kicked back his chair with the heel of his boot and walked out. He needed air. He needed to clean his mind and regain his poise.

***

+++“Delicious,” said Byron. “Wherever did you find him, Doc?”

“I told you. He’s Roza’s great...grand-nephew. My god, he reminds me of her father. I’ve never seen him angry.”

“Looks nothing like him, if I have the man right. The butler?”

“He has his expression. He has his mind. If he has his right arm and wrist as well, you’re lucky it’s in a sling. Leave him alone.”

“What did he say to me? Sounded like a curse.”

Methos sat and took a long swallow of ale. “Be fucked by Death’s dick,” he said. “Roughly translated.”

“Ahhh. Yes. Eventually. At length. Death comes for us all,” laughed Byron. “But I’d rather yours. My God, or his. Are you indulging, Doc? Does he fill your every need? You had a thing for valets.”

“Dressers,” Methos corrected. “The odd footman. Don’t be vulgar. He’s a legacy. He’s useful. Don’t provoke him; don’t insult him or Roza again. I’d take it poorly.” His smile was cold, menacing. Byron shrugged.

“In dear Roza’s memory. Too tall, too blond for me. I’d freeze in those eyes. You’re right, only a fool is buggered by his valet.”

Methos’s lips spread into a friendlier smirk. “It was de rigueur in ancient Rome. Well, screwing one’s body slaves. The reverse was...perverse.”

“You’d know.” Byron raised Hans’s bottle in salute. 

Methos shook his head and drank again. “What do you want with me?”

“Oh, Doc. You have to ask?”

“Why are you here?”

Byron drank from Hans’s bottle; he licked its rim. “Good drink, good company. Better drink in my rooms. I stopped by our old place of pleasure, on a whim. Saw to my shock it was for sale. What possessed you? That lovely house, with its lovely memories. Sad, losing Roza as well.”

“She wouldn’t leave the house. I kept the house, kept her and Meyer, until...for her lifetime. I’ve wanted to sell for decades. That life is over, now.”

“Not for the new nobility. Not for the gods of screen and concert hall.”

“Ah, yes. Congratulations; try not to die so sordidly this time.”

“I’ll die impaled on Death’s dick. I love it. The lyrics write themselves, alas.” He drained the beer. “I bought your house. My broker is most discreet. Most neighborhoods withdraw their dresses and shield their eyes from the radiance of fame.”

Methos snorted. “They’ll hate you there. Sell it again.”

“It has sentimental value. I’ll turn the drawing room into a recording studio. I’ll give masked balls. I’ll wallow in our bed and cry your name.”

“You tracked me?”

“I tracked your servant. Or my agent did. To Hell and back. To Blackpool! Imagine my surprise.”

“You knew him, you charlatan. He’ll hate that you have the house. I’ll buy it back from you.”

“We’ll argue about it later. I’m bored, I’m stiff.” He stretched his arms and winked. “Come work the kinks out. Tell me what I’ve missed.”

Methos grinned and fingered Byron’s foulard. “Your place. Keep away from mine.”

“And the base Hungarian wight,” Byron agreed. They stood.+++

***

The rain was wet and cold, not cleansing. Hans ducked into the cutlery shop. He bought a new case knife he did not need. He had the edge sharpened to his taste. The rain, his demeanor, or simple fellow feeling led the proprietor, Ivan Bell, to close shop, urging Hans to keep him company at the wine bar. The comrades in arms were there, telling tales of Christmas under fire. Hans let a Scotch and hot water warm his hands while he listened and thought.

That creature knew his name, his aunt’s name; knew Adams’s family’s house. Was familiar about his reverend aunt, who must have been in her fifth decade when he was born. He was named for the poet Auntie Roza read, the author of the book she had kept close, secreted in her room. Coincidence, maybe. Ill chance. Ill omen, too many ill omens together. Byron intended to offend. To split Adams from his company...ill mannered or malicious? Jealous? His start made the drink ripple, clasped between his hands. Bell squinted at him.

Did Adams need him here? Truly, in Blackpool, in his present state, he was of little use. He’d seen no evidence they were followed or observed, or of any threat. He had not been able to forestall the evil of tasteless socks. Hans had been company to Adams. But. Was he company or hindrance, if the like of this Byron was the fellowship Adams preferred? He was...it was not his concern, so long as Adams was safe. He was employee, not friend. His duty was not to be Adams’s father or brother or counselor, let alone his moral guide. But. He did not like to see the man he believed Adams to be acting familiar with such a man. Looking drowsy eyed at carrion, smiling at... he shook his head.

“Something on your mind?” asked Bell. The booth of old men were all looking at him. He lifted a shoulder.

“I met a fool.”

“Life’s full of fools,” said Bell. The group agreed.

“Shoot him,” said the one called Carp. “Can’t shoot them all,” said Bell. “Can’t even kick ‘em all in the bag,” complained Schmidt.

“I could...kick this one,” said Hans. It was a cheering thought.

When he returned to the hotel, it was dark outside. No light or sound emanated under Adams’s door. Hans ate a badly cooked dish of meat and noodles in the hotel dining room and retired. He contemplated his belongings. With the laptop, it was more than he could carry one-handed. He’d have to rely on taxis and porters. He’d have to find somewhere to stay in London, to supervise the remaining renovation. Was the newly acquired building, with its promised flat, habitable? He opened his diary on the laptop and made a memo to engage a room for the week. Christmas week. End of the old year, beginning of the new.

He had just put on his pyjamas and clean socks and turned down his bed when there was a knock at his door.

Adams leaned on the doorsill in his overcoat, hands jammed in his pockets. He smelled of soap and liquor under the cold air brought from outside. Hans looked at his neck and pockets and saw no scrap of violet silk. “Hi,” said Adams.

“Sir,” said Hans.

“Not…Hey. Come have a sit and a drink. Stellar telly tonight; David Attenborough tracks the wild pastrami.”

“It’s gone eleven. Sir.”

“Come anyway.” The lost look was back in his eyes. “Sleep in tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. A bad day to travel and book rooms, as would be the next. Hans damned the timing. He was tired, irritated, in no mood for company or drink. And Adams looked at him like a dog in the rain. 

“No, thank you. Sir,” said Hans. Adams took his hands from his pockets (Hans stepped back) and hugged his elbows. _Armed,_ said the back of Hans’s brain.

“Ah, well,” said Adams. He lifted a hand and pointed at Hans’s chest. “I take it back. You’re not free to leave. You don’t” he poked Hans’s chest twice, “leave me angry.” 

He turned on his heel and walked down the corridor to his room and entered it, not looking back.

Hans shut his door. Quietly, in spite of what he felt.

***

+++Hours earlier, in the prize suite of a more upscale and up-to-date hotel…where the Christmas lights twinkled white and tiny in spindly trees flanking the hotel drive…two young men, one slim and fair, one muscled and dark, folded their fees into tight jeans. Byron lay on the acre of bed, waving them off.

“Don’t mind Doc. He’s in a mood. Good work, gentlemen. Good filthy fun.”

The door shut behind them. Methos came out of the bath in a dark silk dressing gown, toweling his hair. “I’m not in a mood.”

“I’d have laid in women, too, if you’d hinted. Geese and grain.” He fumbled for the snuffbox and spoon. “I didn’t want to clash with your current persona.”

“I don’t have a current persona. Not quite.” He knelt on the bed and slapped the damp towel across Byron’s thighs. “That was overkill. All I wanted was you.”

“You’ve gone soft, Doc. That studded tongue had real merit. Here.” He groped for Methos’s silk and pulled him closer, rolling aside. Methos punched a pillow, of the half dozen at the bed’s head, and settled next to him. Byron offered the box. “Coca?”

Methos waved it away. “Makes me numb. Makes that numb, too,” he said, stopping a playful sprinkle on the head of his cock. Byron leaned across and licked it off, disarranging the foreskin. “Ah, but that’s nice.” Byron kissed and bit his thigh and fell back. “Don’t stop.”

“Don’t pretend.” He dropped, nonetheless, a hand into Methos’s lap, curling around his cock. “My hand looks small there.”

“You have small hands. Don’t stop.”

“You leak sadness. Is it money? Love? Death?”

“The smoke of burning bridges.”

“Regret’s passé. If you want the house back, I’ll negotiate. Why did you sell?”

“An old brother found it. It wasn’t safe, for me or mine… Don’t stop.”

“Is this brother still alive? Still unsafe?” asked Byron. Methos touched Byron's cock, took it gently in his hand. It was limp and unresponsive. His hand was large, around it.

“Dead,” said Methos, closing his eyes. “And safe. Don’t stop. All dead and gone.”

“Not you, though.” He twisted his hand. Methos’s breath caught and Byron began a steady stroke. “Never you. You’re alive, Doc. Alive and rampant as a lion.” After another dozen passes he gave a sharp squeeze to Methos’s thickened cock and turned away, onto his side. “Come on. Prove it.”

Methos chuckled, not opening his eyes. “Haven’t you had enough?” He took himself in hand, resuming the lost rhythm.

“Never. ‘Don’t stop,’ ” taunted Byron. “You’ve got it. Use it.” He dropped the tube of Glide over his shoulder. “Hard and wet. Come on. Stuff it up there. Past the falls, over the rocks, into the rapids.”

Methos popped the tube’s top and squirted the gel onto his fingers, careless of the dressing gown and sheets. “I’m between names. Between friends.” He stroked himself with a slippery hand, circling his staff and sliding around his balls. “I was comfortable in Paris.” With his other hand he parted Byron’s cheeks. He painted his opening with two fingers then twisted into him. Over Byron’s hiss, he said, “It’s good to see you. Someone I know. Someone who knows me.” He crooked his fingers and Byron gasped. “Touching me,” he said, so low Byron could barely hear.

“Fuck the past,” said Byron, breathing hard. Methos pulled his fingers out. He swept aside the silk and pulled Byron’s hips into position. “Come with me,” said Byron. Methos set his cock in place. “Leave your sadness.” Methos pushed. “Come. We’ll sing, we’ll dance, we’ll fuck under heaven. Come...burn,” he panted, as Methos plunged into him, gripping him; driving into him over and again. “Come live!”+++

***

The next morning, once again, Adams was nowhere to be seen. Hans returned to his room after breakfast. He opened his laptop, standing at his desk, and read the list of things to be done today in his diary. He tapped his finger on the blotter. He powered the laptop off and closed its lid. Damn the man.

Hans was not sentimental about Christmas. He doubted Adams was. When Adams was not in his rooms (he knocked) or in the dining room for lunch, Hans went outside. It had begun to snow, in a steady, fine drift. That augured ill for tonight’s fireworks over the beach. He walked under bright colored lights that arched across the streets. He turned toward the shopping centre, onto increasingly crowded pavements. There was a loud and long queue at the coffee shop. Walking out with the cardboard container warming his hand, he went left, looking for the cross street that would lead back to the hotel. A rainbow of color caught his eye, in the window of a silly looking shop. On a whim, he went in. The small shop sold socks ( _…by the seashore,_ said the young voice in his brain). Many different, silly pairs of socks. He hovered, between mild repulsion and curiosity, over a long bin of neatly folded mounds ranked by color. The neon green were here. For men, as well as children and women? He sank his hand into the fuschia-mauve-rose row, into softness of simulated cashmere, and pulled out a shell-pink pair. Yes, sized for men. The socks flopped over his fist.

It was warm and pleasant inside. The clerk, a sweet, round girl, looked at him. He caught a whiff of beguiling scent. Outside the window, the snow pelted down. His hand dipped again and came up holding a rather nice…a calf-length argyle of blue against a winey dark red. He glanced up at the clock. It was time to find Adams and see if a decent dinner was available anywhere. Bell might know. The girl smiled.

***

+++ “When I told her, I have a black soul,” said Byron. “I…”

“I have a black shirt,” said Methos, licking his ice cream cornet. “And I have it on sound authority that I look edible in it.” Over one shoulder was slung a long leather case with a strap.

“Edible as coal. I hate your shoes.” Snow fell onto Byron’s wide-brimmed hat and dusted the shoulders of his coat. His stick grated and slipped on the pavement. He and Methos walked between two large men, one in front of them, one behind. At the edges of their sight, people stopped to stare.

“They have black soles as well; no, I lie,” Methos turned up his foot. “But they’re not meant for snow. Hans will be mightily pissed if they’re ruined. There’s the place, ahead.”

“Send him home,” said Byron. “You don’t need a nurse. You don’t need a secretary, a bodyguard.”

“Says the man who travels with a retinue.”

“I’m a star. It’s expected. You’re hungry for company? You have me.”

“He suits me. I hate paperwork. I like being dressed.”

“You like being handled, and not by the doughty Hans. I’ll hire you a boy. Two. One to pull up your trousers while the other combs your hair. Four hands, buttoning down, zipping up, tucking in…”

“All right,” muttered Methos, throwing down his empty cone.

“One behind, fastening your braces, one before, tying your tie. One for hips, one for lips.”

“Not boys,” said Methos, stepping more quickly.

“Small hands. Slipping here and there, in and under. Or a pair of those peasant youths you liked. Broad palms on your back. Rough knuckles under your socks, against the arch of your foot, your ankles, huge fists bunching your vest in your armpits, the hollow of your…”

“Oh for God’s sake.”

“Warming up, are we? Can I still make you come in the street with only words?”

“That was long ago and far away. And the words were so much better.”

“I love a challenge.”

“Enough,” said Methos. He stopped in front of the shop and reached to open its door, but the man in front of him intervened. “There’s no one in there,” he protested.

“Wait outside,” Byron told their escort. Three girls watching from across the street waved.

“In the snow?” asked Methos.

“With flaming swords, guarding the entry with frightful symmetry.” Byron pushed past him into the shop. 

“Why do I think I’ll regret this?” Methos asked Byron’s back. The shop was small and brightly lit. Two walls were lined with glass cases containing an array of kitchen knives, carving sets, whetstones, sharpeners, scissors, and a small selection of hunting and utility blades. The owner, the only person visible, came out from behind a counter. He was a sturdy, older man in a blue shirt and khaki cabled cardigan, patched with leather on one elbow. He had short gray hair, blue eyes, and a weathered complexion. He looked at Byron briefly and Methos with care.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I hope so,” said Methos. He unshipped the case from his shoulder and let its end rest on the floor. “Are you Mr. Bell?”+++

***

In front of Ivan Bell’s a group of agitated and grotesquely dressed young people had gathered. Two cut-rate bodyguards, ridiculous in sunglasses, in the snow, flanked the door. The girls (most likely girls) closest in were giggling. The door showed a “Closed” sign. The interior was lit and figures could be seen within.

There was a back door. Today, Hans did not feel like being denied. He slipped around to the alley that ran crookedly behind the row of buildings. The door he wanted opened onto Bell’s workshop. He tapped; an eye appeared behind the peephole, then he was let in. “Damned nonsense,” said Bell. “But it’ll come to money. Glad you came by before leaving.”

Hans brushed snow from his overcoat. “Leaving?” he asked. He’d said nothing to Bell.

“He’s out front. With, errrm. Be done in five.”

“Who?” asked Hans. He looked at the workbench, at the grinder and the length of steel under Bell’s polishing cloth, and knew. Knew the sword and the man.

“Thanks for the mention,” said Bell. “Nice piece; museum piece, could be. A fine thing to work on.”

“Georgian,” said Hans. “After an old model.”

“1790 under the crosspiece,” said Bell. “But a replica of one much older. You could have said, before. I’d like to see the rest of the collection.”

Hans didn’t know what Adams had told Bell. He wasn’t sure himself why Adams dragged the thing around with him. Except, one time at least, it had saved Adams’s life. “He wanted it all sold. I’ll send you the catalogue for the auction, when it’s out.”

“Thanks,” said Bell. “Careless, to get that nick in the tip. You wouldn’t know now,” he added, confidently. “Kept the integrity of the steel.”

 _Leaving._ “I’m sure. I’ll let him know I’m here.”

“Make a noise,” said Bell, grimacing, and returned to his work.

Hans walked through the dark little passage way and parted the curtains that kept drafts from the main room of the shop. They were pressed in a corner, behind a tall rack of books, partly shielded from the windows and door. Byron sat, his back to Hans. Adams leaned on the display case, next to him.

“Touching, not handling. And all too public,” Hans heard Adams say. His hand was cupped at the base of Byron’s neck, his fingers set deep in the curls. “Don’t take offense.”

“There are rooms within rooms,” said Byron. “No end of private places. I’ll see you laugh again. I’ll take the dirty burden on.”

Hans could not see Byron’s expression. Adams smiled down at him, _fondly,_ and bent closer. “I...”

Hans coughed, and Adams’s head jerked up.

“Well, well,” said Byron, twisting to see. “Here’s a friendly face.”

“Hello, Hans,” said Adams. He slid his hand down to Byron’s shoulder. The pose looked like a portrait from the family gallery, of an admiral and his wife. As before, in the creature Byron’s company, Hans felt his hackles rise.

“Mr. Bell is nearly finished. Will you be returning to the hotel?” _Leaving,_ Bell had said, and made it sound imminent.

“There’s a back door?” asked Adams. “That’s handy.”

“He’s staying with me, now,” said Byron. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“No,” said Adams.

“It wouldn’t be Christmas without Hans,” said Byron. 

“That’s enough,” said Adams, loud but not angry. “You can go home, Hans.”

“Not without you,” said Hans, before _home_ had separated itself from the hotel.

“You see? We’ll have that party after all. Fireworks in the snow.” Byron looked up at Adams. “Good servants are so hard to find. You’re right to keep him. I withdraw my objections.”

“Stop it,” said Adams. He knocked his knuckles against Byron’s jaw. Gently.

“Harrrrumph,” said Bell, from behind the curtains. He entered with the sword wrapped in a cloth, holding it by hilt and blade. “Perfect again. Give it a look over.”

Adams stood there, his hand still on the creature. 

He’d had enough of Byron’s company. The crowd in front of the shop had grown. Was Adams beyond all sense, not to worry about his “reporters”? “I’ll wait outside,” Hans told Adams. “Away from that circus.” He nodded at Bell and slid behind him, through the workshop. He heard Byron’s mocking voice, before he shut the outer door. Misled, misconceived, or merely weak; Adams was better away with Hans.

Hans stood in the alley’s drifts and slush, his breath puffing into his eyes. The snow still fell. The light had leached from the sky, leaving gray shadows around the dustbins and piled trash. Ahead, the alley would terminate in a cross street close to the soldiers’ bar. He’d no guarantee Adams would follow. Gloves were too difficult to manage. His overcoat buttoned, hand in his pocket, he stepped off the cement slab outside the door and kicked a foam box from his path. It made a noise. _Rat,_ he thought, and stopped, waiting for it to bolt. The box rustled and the noise came again; decidedly not a rat. He nudged the box with his foot, then crouched next to it. It was a carry away container, taped shut. The box cracked under his fingers. He tore the top away from the tape and the weak, whining noises stopped. In a nest of dirty waxed paper a small reddish-haired form curled on its side, shaking under his breath. “Szegény kutya!” He covered the body with his hand, then stroked it, carefully; the light was too dim to see well. He touched its muzzle with his thumb and a small, pink tongue licked its tip.

“Good enough,” said Hans. 

“Find a pin and pick it up,” said Byron, stumping up behind him. Hans blinked the snow from his lashes and stood, clutching the broken box against his chest.

“What do you have there? Dinner?” With his stick, Byron smacked the bottom of the box (and the hand around it) before Hans could swing away.

His fingers smarted. He couldn’t guard the freezing animal and protect himself one-handed. He turned a shoulder to Byron and snarled. “Piss off!”

“But I’ve come to apologize! Kiss and make up. A little courtesy before Doc joins us.” He took a step closer and Hans stepped to the side. He was stuck between the dustbins and the wall and Byron closing in; between him and the warmth of Bell’s workshop. If Byron came any closer, he could give him a knee and a shoulder. But the creature was not entirely lacking in preservation instincts. Byron gestured with the stick, held upright before his legs. “Leave. He’ll never love you. He’s incapable. Hasn’t got a heart. Cuts and runs from hole to hole; and just now, I’m his shelter from the night.”

“He has a home,” said Hans. The box was silent and unmoving. He sighed and kept his good side to Byron; squatting down again, setting the box gently on the slush, he pulled the bag from his pocket and shook out the soft, red socks. He scooped the pup from the box and stained papers and draped the socks over it, while Byron babbled on.

“I have his home. He fits me, servant; he fits me like fist in glove. I’m his equal. You’re an obligation. A debt. What is that?”

Hans settled the socky parcel inside his sling. Standing, he rebuttoned his coat securely over it. “Out of my way,” he said. It was unpleasant to hit a cripple; but for this man, he’d make the effort.

“I’m not a monster,” said Byron. “Not that sort. A dog? Alive?”

“Dog?” And now Adams was there, in his coat, with the sword cased, and Bell behind him in the alley’s falling snow.

“My dog,” said Hans. 

“Fuck me!” said Byron. “Master, servant, and dog! And no manor to hold them.”

“What dog?” said Adams.

“No, no; I was about to make an offer. A deal: The house you want, the house you love, yes? For the inconvenient master? Leave him now, leave him with me, and I’ll deed the house to you.”

“Shut up,” said Adams.

“Don’t be like poor old Roza. He didn’t love her and he’ll never love you. Take the house.”

“I warned you,” said Hans.

“The truth is no offense. Ask him. We both cared for Roza. She knew me, she loved him.”

Hans swung with his left, off balance, connecting with Byron’s cheek, snapping his head to the side. He struck him again with a jab to his jaw, again not enough to knock him down, and Byron brought his cane up in defense, the sword half out from its cover. Twisting, Hans kicked his midsection, snapping the sword stick, sending him backward into a plastic bin that spewed trash.

Adams shook his head at Byron. “I told you.” He bent down to lift him and Byron knocked his hand away. He curled up, scrabbling at his ankle, after a sheath buckled there, when Adams laid him flat with a blow of the sword case.

Hans blinked. The burden in his coat scratched at his cast.

“Bugger,” said Bell. “That’s a dent in it.”

“More custom for you,” said Adams. “He needs a better blade.” They all looked at Byron, silent in the garbage pile, gathering snow.

“How bad...” said Bell, and Adams shrugged.

“He’ll live. Fetch his bruisers, they’ll cart him off. They’re used to it.”

Hans put his hand over the moving lump in his sling. Warmth, light, and food; “Bar,” he said to Bell.

Bell rubbed his hand over his hair. “Might see you there.”

Adams took Hans by the elbow. “Bar, and home. Lead on,” he said. “So, we have a dog?”

***End***


End file.
